


Miles to Go (Before I Sleep)

by Krystalicekitsu



Series: Dreams of You and I [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Nightmares, Realization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-27
Updated: 2011-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/Krystalicekitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter wakes from a nightmare about his past and has to reconsider some hard decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles to Go (Before I Sleep)

**Author's Note:**

> Actually from an idea I only partially used. The plot kept turning left when I wanted right. Instead of fighting it, I decided to just do two separate fics. Much thanks to [](http://annundriel.livejournal.com/profile)[**annundriel**](http://annundriel.livejournal.com/) for giving this a once over and beta. For my [](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/) prompt [card](http://krystalicekitsu.livejournal.com/84630.html#cutid1) ' _nightmares_ '.

_"Cards," Neal gasped, the struggle for breath coming more labored the longer he lay on the cold concrete, blood bubbling up around his lips from where the bullet punched through a lung._

 _"Neal, Neal, hey- hey, stay with me. Neal, stay with me," Peter whispered frantically, clutching at his partner's peacoat, ignoring the way the blood smeared and smudged in his gloves-- "These are from France, Peter! One-hundred percent lamb suede! You can't get them wet!" Neal complained, exasperated-- concentrating on keeping pressure on the wound, on keeping Neal's life inside him._

 _"No!" Neal wrenched himself up, a hand fisted, clenched into Peter's trench coat-- "You ever gonna get rid of that thing?" "Elizabeth got it for me." A snort. "Probably because she knows you wouldn’t wear anything but-"-- material straining against the desperation. Twisted, convoluted, and wrapped around Neal’s hand, a gesture of violent emotion, but the intention ever clear even in it’s desperation, a mirror reversal of what he and Neal were; intentions and meanings hidden, but the bond straight and true._

 _"Peter- It's-," a sharp grimace of pain, a wet, rattling breath, "In the cards, Peter. Cards."_

 _Neal's eyes were wide and pleading, pain and regret swirling with fear and desperation._

 _"Hey, hey," Peter lifted a hand to cup Neal's chin, "With me. You're with me, okay? Stay with me, Neal. Neal."_

 _Peter could only watch as Neal's breaths grew more labored and shorter, air coming back up in red bubbles. Could only watch as vibrant blue eyes dimmed more, panic fading with the light in them and Peter wanted the light to stay far more than he wanted the panic gone._

 _"Peter," Neal tried, but all his air was gone, lips forming the word soundlessly, eyes dull, hand still clenched in Peter's trenchcoat, still holding._

 _"Why?"_

Peter wakes with a gasp, a sob, tears trailing down his face. He looks to his left, Elizabeth's peaceful face cocooned in a fall of brown hair soft as silk, tussled gently around her face.

He has to get up, has to get out. In less than a second he's sitting up, on his feet and moving soundlessly through the room, down the hall, down the stairs, out the door and into the back yard, numb to the four inches of snow already on the ground. Equally numb to the flakes still falling. Neal would call it a magical night. Special.

Peter shivers, well aware it's not from the negative temperatures or the snow on his bare feet.

It hadn't happened that way, of course. The dream was just that- a dream. Neal was fine. He’d had dinner with them just that night, complaining good naturedly that Peter was never allowed to pick the wine again and that Quantico's new hoops for consultants wrecked his style.

He'd given a toast at dessert.

Peter shivers again, huddles as images of a glass of red wine melt and bleed together, just melt, just bleeding, everywhere-- _"Peter,_ "-- and the shiver turns in to a convulsion, body contracting as he stumbles for the side of the porch. He throws up, bitter and harsh burning up his throat, his nose, doesn't fight the tears that come with it, burning down his face in the cold air.

It hadn't happened that way. But it could have.

Could have Neal bleeding out in his arms, or suffocating, choking on his own blood, the paramedics too late to do anything but announce cause of death. Could have been a funeral and somber black suits, bars over shields instead of hospital visits for weeks afterwards, and PT for months more.

Could have.

' _It didn't,_ ' Peter tells himself. Again and again.

"Neal's alive," Peter whispers, voice rough, eaten through with tears and guilt and anxiety. He says the words again, 'Neal's alive,' trying to erase the dream from his mind. He collapses back into the snow, sliding down the side of the house, snow bunching up around his ankles under the hem of his sleeping pants and soaking into his thighs, his ass. He has a hand to the snow covered ground, steadying, keeping him here and now as the heel of his other hand presses above his left eye.

Neal's alive.

He's alive.

The presence that presses itself into his side is small and warm, soft and comforting as the blanket draped around his shoulders and the fingers combing through his hair. Elizabeth doesn't say anything, doesn't have to, never does. And not just because she dealt with the fallout the first time.

The first time, when Neal was in the hospital, covered in tubes and wires and masks, machines to breathe for him, make sure his heart pumped, monitored his mind and bodily rhythms and kept him from breaking apart. When the case was completed, shipped off to the prosecutor and the evidence was gathered. When the gunman's body had been dissected and reassembled and his accomplices printed and Mirrandized and there was nothing left to do.

When Peter had stumbled into Neal's hospital room held together by stubbornness and twine, his badge the lynch-pin holding it all together. He'd laid a single bright yellow rose on the table and looked at his partner, his informant, his friend. He'd _looked_. For one moment, he'd allowed himself to _look_.

Elizabeth had been there when the looking became too much and his legs collapsed out from under him. He'd cried, silently, in chest shuddering sobs because it was over and Neal wasn't beside him and _Neal wasn't beside him_.

"I think it's time to tell him," Elizabeth says, low and soothing into his ear.

Peter wraps an arm around her waist and hauls her closer, breathing in the comforting scent of her.

Neal's alive.


End file.
